Call of Duty: Broken Arrow
by Ironfingers
Summary: SEAL team X-ray 2 uncovers a sinister plot that jeopardizes the US-led mission to take down revolutionary leader Khaled al-Asad.
1. Landfall

Disclaimer: While this story uses some real world settings and organizations, all characters and events depicted are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real world people or events is entirely coincidental. Call of Duty and associated characters are property of Activision. All original characters are property of Ironfingers. Do not use without permission.

Author's Note: Call of Duty tells the story of a few ordinary men caught in extraordinary events. Their actions shaped their world as they knew it and they are forever remembered for it. But in the background, there are those who have not hymns written nor stories told; they are merely forgotten in the wake of those still worshiped as heroes, effaced from the annals of history by the ravages of time. This is the chronicle of one such man.

**Episode 1: Landfall**

_People change._ Children grow to be men. Men rise to be leaders. Leaders carve civilizations from dust. _Times change._ Large nations crush small ones. Old men order the death of young men. Governments crumble. War erupts. _Things change._ The strong become weak. The invincible become vulnerable. The hunter becomes the hunted.

It is one thing to be a subject of change, but another entirely to be an agent of change. I am Chief Petty Officer Marcus Rae. I slay the invincible. I stalk the hunter. I topple governments and destroy nations. I crush the strong. I raise the weak. I am an agent of change.

_I am a Navy SEAL._

Some people dream of being a hero. I live the life of one every day, with one sole caveat: no one will ever know of my actions. My team undertakes dangerous missions that will never be shown on television, chronicled in books, or posted to YouTube. The information is too sensitive; the ramifications, too controversial. As SEAL operators, we are sworn to silence. The very people we protect will never know of our exploits. But that's just fine with me. I didn't sign on to show off. I signed on to win.

Even as ordinary sailors, we were always taught the price of victory. Some would pay in time, others in blood; others still with their lives. Even while serving with the other sailors and marines on my ship, I knew the price of victory and was determined to snatch it from the enemy. Those days seemed an eternity ago. I had almost forgotten the life of an ordinary enlisted man. Now I was sitting in an MH-53J Pave Low chopper with nine other likeminded operators, each one rearing to go in for the kill.

The news had been abuzz with mad speculation after the publicly televised execution of president Yasir al-Fulani by revolutionary leader Khaled al-Asad. How did he come to power? How did he amass the funding and support to overthrow al-Fulani's government without public knowledge? What was the final straw that sent al-Asad over the edge?

I had scoffed at the newsies. I couldn't care less how he got there. The brigand had forcefully seized the reigns of an otherwise peaceful nation and rattled his saber at the United States of bloody America, quite possibly the last nation on Earth even a megalomaniac like al-Asad would want to anger. But anger them he did. Harsh words were exchanged and before long, the hammer fell.

US Marines from the 26th MEU made landfall that dusty morning in March, quickly smashing the opposition and pushing deep into enemy territory. The enemy fought fiercely, but it soon began to show that al-Asad's mercenaries and jihadist militia were hardly a match for battle-hardened, highly disciplined, and heavily armed United States marines and sailors. The beaches and primary harbor were secured by the end of the first day. Another day to regroup and we were off again. So there we were, eight ordinary SEAL operators and two EOD techies on another early morning run, ready to cause general havoc and leave death and destruction in our wake. Just another day on the job…

"Ninety seconds to landfall," came the pilot's voice over the intercom. He sounded almost bored, as if it were all routine. I silently smirked. The helo pilots never saw any action; they always bugged out before the shooting started. They had a right to be bored, but I guess in the end they were better off. After all, they weren't the ones getting shot at. I quickly glanced around at the other operators around me. They were equipped just as I was; heavy body armor, backpacks full equipment, vest pouches full of ammunition, weapons sitting idle in their laps or cinched tight against their chests.

I absent-mindedly fingered the VTAC sling around my own Mk. 18 Close Quarters Battle Rifle. Its stubby 10.5-inch barrel looked almost comical against my bulging magazine pouches, enormous combat knife, and heavy body armor, but I had long since passed the stage of laughing at it. In spite of its size, it was still an Armalite; at once familiar, reliable, and lethal. I racked the charging handle on the CQBR and lightly tapped on the forward assist button, pulling a round from the magazine and ramming it into the chamber. The Lexan window of the attached EOTech holographic gun sight flashed red as I switched it on. A glowing red ring with a central dot appeared, drifting lazily around as the Pave Low bobbed back and forth over the swells of the Arabian Sea.

"Shoreline coming into view. ETA to objective is three minutes. We're going black."

The cockpit went dark as the pilots switched to using their night vision, making the Pave Low essentially invisible in the darkness of the early morning. As I listened to the sounds of the other SEALs doing likewise, I flipped the night vision goggles attached to my helmet down to my eyes and switched them on. The familiar green-tinted image appeared in front of me as the tinny, high-pitched whine of active electronics subsided. My CQBR's EOTech window glowed bright green, completely washing out the reticule in my night vision. I reached down and pressed the button marked NV on the sight's console, quickly switching it to night vision mode. The reticule faded in from the ambient glow, settling at a steady intensity suitable for night use.

"Radio check," a voice called out in the cabin. It was sharp and crisp, higher in range than was particularly befitting of a commanding officer. But at the same time, there was heft and ferocity behind it, more in line with the caliber man who had spoken. I turned towards Lieutenant Anthony Joaquin and keyed my headset radio.

"Rae here," I spoke. Joaquin nodded and gave the thumbs up sign.

"Dongle, checking in," the man next to me said. The others quickly followed suit.

"Engels here."

"Danes at the ready."

"McBurney has you."

"Weaver up."

"Archie copies."

"Joker ready."

"Kilionski."

"Comms are good. Go to secure channel," the lieutenant said. I reached behind me and opened the pouch containing my radio. In the dull green glow of the night vision, I could barely make out the markings. I pressed one of the buttons and waited for the radio to synchronize its encryption with those around it. A double beep confirmed that it had succeeded.

The chopper was flying low to the ground now, the downwash from its blades sweeping up dust as it crossed over sandy areas. I watched out of the corner of my eye as we quickly and quietly skirted a village and headed out toward a palm grove not far away. Off in the distance, the lights of the capital graced the horizon, though it was much too far away to provide illumination. As we neared the palm grove, a large radio antenna materialized out of the black mist of morning.

"Ya'll ready?" Joaquin's voice came over the radio.

"HOOYAH!" I said in unison with the other SEALs. There was not a hint of shakiness in the chorus. Training and experience had clipped our collective nerves and put hard caps on our fears. We would go. We would fight. And we would win.

"This one's a quickie, boys," Lt. Joaquin continued. "The next phase of invasion is set to begin in a few hours, so ol' McQueen back at HQ wants us to do the Jarheads a favor."

"If it's buyin' drinks, I ain't putting a single cent down!" Seaman Joshua Hicks, better known as "Dongle" said, slapping his thigh. His remark elicited sparse laughter from the other SEALs.

"Can it, Hicks," I said, jabbing him with my elbow. He playfully punched me back, but held his tongue.

"There's a network of radars around the capital that are used to coordinate their anti-air defenses. Recon says that they're linked to a headquarters station a few miles from shore. If we take out the HQ's main antenna, they'll be unable to coordinate their defenses."

"We're poking the Hajjis in the eye, Dongle," Ensign Ryan Brockman, the man across from Hicks, summarized. "That should be simple enough for you to remember."

"At least give me some credit," Hicks muttered under his breath.

"Rules of engagement, sir?" Petty Officer Danes asked.

"Terminate on contact."

"Thirty seconds, guys!" one of the pilots spoke over the intercom. We went silent as the Pave Low slowed and lightly touched the ground. The downwash from the rotors created a swirling vortex of sand around the LZ.

"Perimeter out, GO!" Joaquin barked.

We quickly poured out of the chopper, weapons raised. I stepped out and advanced three yards, taking a knee and sighting my CQBR. The glowing green ring of my EOTech's display hovered in front of me, ready to zero in on a target should one present itself. On the edges of the green circle of night vision, two more SEALs advanced; Dongle to my right and Sn. McBurney to my left. They stopped and knelt with weapons ready, their heads scanning the horizon, just as they had been carefully taught.

"We'll be back to pick you up in twelve," The pilot said on our frequency. "Don't be late."

The Pave Low lifted off again as the last man touched the ground, the chopper's rotors showering us with sand. I brushed the corners of my goggles with the back of my gloved palm and adjusted my night vision as the dust cloud settled.

"Joker, take your team and head into the east side of the palm grove," came the orders from the LT. "Be ready to support us if we come into contact."

"Roger," Ens. Brockman replied, responding to his nickname. He waved to his fire team and they split from the perimeter, heading east along the edge of the grove where the palms met the sand.

"Team one and EOD, you're with me," Joaquin said. "We're sweeping through the middle."

"Move out, troop," I ordered and gave the move up hand signal. We formed up in a wedge and pushed forward into the palm grove. The transition from sand to grass was very abrupt, producing a noticeable change in traction and noise level. There was assorted shrubbery, but most of it was confined to the base of the palms, making for clear lines of sight all the way to the dirt path ahead that would lead to the communications array.

Ninety seconds. I gave the halt hand signal and took a knee. The SEALs behind me stopped and scanned their sectors, searching for movement among the palms. The command center loomed ahead. It was a squat, yellow brick structure, dusty with both age and erosion. Shrubbery lined the exterior walls and vines snaked their way towards the flat roof, giving it a quaint, if not slightly disheveled appearance. The perimeter appeared to be clear of guards and there was no exterior illumination or evidence to suggest that it was monitored. The only light came from a curtained window that I could barely see around the corner from us.

"Lieutenant?" I whispered.

"Hold fast," he responded. Joaquin keyed his radio. "Joker, take team two and circle around the far side of the compound and make for the antenna. The rest of us will sweep through the main building and secure the compound."

"Acknowledged," came the curt reply.

"Rae, on point," Joaquin finished. I nodded and motioned forward. We rose and advanced on the building, hugging the walls as we rounded the corner and came to a door near the window we had spotted from the dirt road. We stacked up and prepared to breach. I listened closely and could hear animated chatter coming from the inside. There were three or four distinct voices, prattling on in Arabic about something or other.

There was a significant amount of light, so I flipped my night vision off, instead opting for my CQBR's flashlight. A tap of the EOTech's mode switch and the red ring became visible to my unenhanced eyes. As I did this, I could hear the sound of the others doing the same and see circles of light floating past me as their tactical lights came on. I reached behind my back and pulled one of the breaching charges from my web gear, silently sticking the RDX tape to the hinged side. The charge set, I backed up and yanked hard on the friction fuse, starting the five second countdown.

The banter continued on. They didn't suspect a thing…


	2. Party Crashers

**Episode 2: Party Crashers**

_CRACK!_

The sound of the door caving in was sharp and quick. There was little flash and nothing even close to BOOM, unlike what was usually portrayed in movies and video games. There was no shaking of the ground or rattling of the building foundations; it was anticlimactic with how little bass there was to it. It was just a simple break, almost as if I had suddenly reared up and kicked the door with a thousand pounds of force. But romanticizing about it was the last thing on my mind. Before the smoke had even cleared, I was through the door, rifle up and at the ready.

I charged straight forward and swept right with the glowing red ring. A humanoid shape materialized in the EOTech's window, reeling backwards from the shock of intrusion, fumbling with his Kalashnikov in a vain attempt to fight back. It was all automatic from there. As if time had been suspended, my training took over for my thoughts and I suddenly found the red dot locked onto my target's head. My trigger finger reacted in sequence, lightly tapping the CQBR's trigger twice in rapid succession. Before I could even blink, my finger was off the trigger and my target was on the ground bleeding with two smoking holes in his forehead.

In the wake of my initial incursion, hellfire quickly filled the room. Not one step behind me was Hicks with his M14 EBR. Just like I had done a split second before, he instantly snapped to target and fired. The massive report of the 7.62mm round filled the room, leaving a ringing noise in my left ear, just inches away from the M14's muzzle. The deafening blast almost entirely drowned out the last three shots of Lt. Joaquin dropping the last man with his M4A1 carbine. Just as quickly as it had come, the flashes of hellfire vanished, and the room was silent once more.

"Clear left!" Hicks shouted.

"Clear right!" I replied.

"Room clear!" Joaquin said. "Team one, inside!"

The rest of my SEAL fire team and the two EOD techs filed into the control center. To my left, right next to Lt. Joaquin was a couch and a television, which must have been what the night watch was using to amuse themselves. Computers sat idling near the wall closest to my entry position. The room was relatively well-kept on the interior; the floor was swept and the couch by the television looked well broken in. The TV was blasting some music video of belly-dancing girls and crazy old men with ouds and bongos. I stepped over one of the bodies and switched it off. I could never stand TV trash anyways.

A glass window in the far wall showed rows and rows of servers, LEDs blinking and disk drives and fans whirring. In spite of the splatters of blood on the walls and the pooling crimson on the floor, the glass had somehow remained immaculate. Just beyond the server room was a dark corridor with two more doors, both open. From the tiling in the farthest room, it appeared to be a bathroom. However, it was impossible to tell what was in the near room, as it was entirely dark.

I turned my gaze downward and inspected the bodies, making sure they were dead before we got started. The man I had killed was confirmed dead. There were two bullet holes in his forehead where my CQBR had done its work. Hicks' target was dead as well, having taken a 7.62 to the head. I nudged the final body, Joaquin's target with my boot. There were three rounds in him; two in the chest and one through the neck; no chance of survival. We were clear.

"Joker, SITREP," Joaquin spoke into his radio.

"Light resistance outside, but we made it to the antenna without much trouble at all. We'll secure the perimeter until your demo guys are done."

"Roger that, Ensign. Joaquin, out," the lieutenant said. He pointed at the server room. "Archie and Danes, rig this up."

"Archie" Yang and Raymond Danes went to work immediately, stringing up demolition charges among the computing hardware. As they went about their business, I looked back toward the dark hallway. Something didn't quite feel right about it. Busting into the place had already seemed easy and routine. Surprises were the last thing I needed this morning.

"Dongle," I said. "Go check that hallway. Make sure there's no one hiding in the lav."

"Aye," came the curt reply.

The lanky operator slipped past the entrance to the server room and shone his flashlight down the hall, revealing an open, unoccupied bathroom and what appeared at first to be an empty closet. I followed up behind him closely, shining my tac light into the closet and sweeping left to right. The floor and walls were barren, a little dusty perhaps, but clear of obstructions. It was odd that they would leave a storage room completely empty.

Suddenly, something caught my eye: the glint of polished metal. On the floor, at the far end of the dark room was something shiny, something that did not belong. I stepped closer and knelt down to examine it. Brushing the floor around it with my gloved fingers, I suddenly realized what 'it' was.

"Lieutenant! You might want to have a look at this," I shouted. Lt. Joaquin bolted over and looked over my shoulder at the metal plate on the floor.

"A hatch. There must be some sort of bunker underneath this compound," he said, furrowing his brow. "Archie!"

"Sir?" came the muffled reply from the server room.

"Toss me a thermite grenade, will ya?"

A red-painted metal cylinder flew in through the door of the closet and clinked to the floor, rolling to a stop at Joaquin's feet.

"When I said 'toss me one'…" the lieutenant sighed. He didn't bother to complete the sentence. "Step back, Rae."

"There might be other entrances, sir," I said.

"Duly noted. Here, take this and weld the hinges shut," he said, firmly planting the thermite grenade in my hand. "I'll get Brockman on the line. Joker, come in."

"Joker here," came the reply.

"I need you to sweep the area around the antenna for any hatches or doorways. It looks like there's a section of this compound that's underground and the last thing we need is moles popping up."

"We've already discovered one entrance, sir. What are your orders?"

"Use thermite to seal it up and report back in when you're done."

"Aye, sir. Joker, out."

By that time, I had already placed and primed the thermite grenade.

"Clear the room, thermite going off!" I said as I slipped out the doorway. Joaquin and Dongle stepped out of the way as a wave of heat splashed out of the closet. The dark room glowed brightly as a puddle of molten metal ate its way out of the grenade shell and began fusing the hatch to its frame.

"Joker here, the entrance is sealed."

"Danes, reporting. The charges in the server room are set."

"EOD, take care of the antenna," Joaquin ordered. "The rest of team one is with me, we're going to run a perimeter sweep to see if we can root out any more of those bunker entrances. And Archie?"

The Asian man turned to face Joaquin. "Sir?"

"I'll need the rest of your thermite."

"I've got two grenades left, sir. Make good use of them," he said as he handed them off.

I scrambled out the door, flipping off my light and dropping my night vision goggles. Four minutes had elapsed; we had eight minutes left to complete our task and return to the LZ for extraction. It would be easy to extract once Archie and Ray finished rigging the antenna. But if those bunker entrances weren't sealed, then we could potentially be struck from the rear while attempting to extract. I swept the oasis with my night vision, searching for the telltale glint of scratched metal. Needing extra illumination, I switched my CQBR's attached AN/PEQ laser pack to 'flood,' projecting a wide cone of infrared light in front of me.

"Chief! There's something over there!" McBurney said. I turned to where he was pointing and noted the concrete berm tucked away in some shrubbery. We had been so intent on securing the command center that we had moved right past it without noticing. But beneath the extra IR illumination, it became clear as day.

"Rae, thermite!" Joaquin called out. I turned around just in time to catch a thermite grenade with my free hand. I circled the berm and stepped into the recessed area it shielded from the sun and wind. The ground was taken by grass, but the walls were clear of vines and other foliage. It seemed that the area was far better maintained than the above ground portion. The door was heavy metal, but definitely not blast door quality. I figured my CQBR could punch through it if I ever needed to do so.

Not forgetting my task, I set to work rigging the door. It was slanted at a forty five degree angle, making it easy to place the grenade where it would not roll off the top hinge. The slope had the added benefit of channeling the molten metal all the way down the hinge side of the door, giving a long, solid weld. The grenade in place, I pulled the pin and backed off.

There was a certain beauty to the dancing flame. Even in the monochromatic green of my night vision, I could clearly see the glowing hot magnesium fuse ignite inside the grenade's shell, sending a stream of molten metal dribbling down the side of the door. My work was finished.

"Door sealed!" I called out. It wouldn't take long for Archie to finish rigging the antenna. Then we could extract and head back to the carrier for some hot chow. Routine mission, routine work. _Simple_.

"Good work. Let's keep moving around the perimeter, there might be m-"

Joaquin was interrupted by a loud explosion, followed by the sharp chatter of automatic weapons fire. I immediately took a knee and swiveled my head around. A firefight had erupted, but we weren't the ones being shot at. My upper lip curled. Things had just gotten complicated…


	3. Kill Zone

**Episode 3: Kill Zone**

Frenzied shouts came from the far side of the compound, punctuated by the staccato reports of assault rifles. Some came in English, others in Arabic. Interspersed between the bursts of rifle fire was the ominous thunder of machine guns. My headset beeped and a familiar voice came over the air waves.

"Team one, this is Brockman!" came the frenzied call. "We have been heavily engaged by multiple contacts to the north and east, numbers unknown, but they're attacking in force! Request immediate backup!"

"Sit tight, Joker," Joaquin quickly replied. He motioned to move out before keying his radio again. "Archie, SITREP!"

"The antenna is rigged to blow, sir, but we're pinned down! We can't move!"

"Team two and EOD, we're on our way! Keep the Hajjis busy until we get there! Rae, McBurney, Hicks, LET'S GO!"

"Weaver, I want suppressing MG fire on those Hajjis!" Brockman began ordering. "Kilionski, you're up; wait for a clear shot and pop 'em a new one! Engels…"

The radio chatter faded out of my mind as we broke into a dead run, circling the command center and approaching the antenna 100 yards distant. As we drew near, I could see muzzle flashes coming out of the foliage just beyond the antenna. Tracer rounds flew back and forth, painting the area in unearthly light as curses in a foreign tongue wafted to us from the firefight. The cacophony of battle was soon drowned out by the pounding of my boots against hard ground and the thundering of the blood in my veins as I propelled my 180-pound frame and the 55 pounds of gear as fast as I could manage.

We soon came across a drainage ditch that served as much welcomed respite and cover. I dropped to my side and slid into the ditch, bracing myself against the far wall as I came to a halt. They had no clue we were here, so I figured we would be good to go for the next sixty seconds. I took deep breaths, trying to steady myself before the orders came. I didn't have long to wait.

"McBurney, base of fire here," Joaquin said, pointing to machine gunner Roger McBurney. "Wait for my signal."

"Aye, sir," the seaman said. He unlocked the bipod on his M60E4 machine gun and sighted in on the origin of the tracers.

"Rae and Dongle, I want you to circle around and hit them in the flank. Radio when you are engaged."

"Roger, moving out," I said, panting. "Get up, Dongle, let's go!"

"Don't have to tell me twice…"

The two of us mantled over the earthen levy and on to open ground. We quickly scrambled to get into the cover of the foliage to the left of our position. Crashing through the brush seemed almost louder than the gun battle ahead. It was a wonder we weren't spotted making our break for it. Forty yards in, I gave the halt and dropped to the ground.

Without a word, Dongle did the same, his M14 at ready. I steadied myself, controlling my breathing so as not to give away my position. Three men made their way towards us at a jogging pace. I drew a bead on them and immediately identified them as the enemy; they had no cat's eye ID tapes on their helmets and the uniforms were wrong. In the amplified starlight of my night vision, I could clearly pick up the outline of a Kalashnikov AKM assault rifle.

"Steady," I whispered.

"Ready when you are, Chief," Hicks replied, keeping his voice low. The men closed the distance quickly, their weapons lowered. Clearly, they were not expecting contact this far out. They were probably trying to circle the long way around and, unaware that there was a second team in place, flank Joker's position on the far side of the antenna.

"Go loud," I said.

Dongle and I fired simultaneously, his mighty 7.62 knocking the lead man off his feet. He tumbled backwards limply, almost knocking down the next man, who at least had the presence of mind to dive for the deck. The third man was not so alert. My double tap caught him in the chest and neck, sending him plunging to the ground, attempting to cry in pain but only succeeding in gurgling pathetically as he drowned in his own blood. Dongle and I sprung up from our position and snapped our weapons to shoulder, spraying the last man with automatic fire before he could bring his Kalashnikov to bear. I keyed my radio as we resumed our run.

"Lieutenant Joaquin, The path in is clear. Three tangos down, but they'll figure out the flankers are missing soon."

"Acknowledged, Rae; we're moving up," Joaquin replied. "Keep pushing until you hit the skirmish line."

"Roger that, sir," I puffed. The sound of machine gun fire grew louder as we approached. The brush thinned out, making it easier to run without making excessive noise until finally we hit a patch of thick brush just short of a road. I could see flashes of machine gun fire just 

beyond the layer of shrubbery before us. Without a word, I dropped to the ground and low crawled to the cover ahead. Looking through the leaves and branches and across the narrow road, I could see the enemy position about 30 yards distant. I keyed my radio.

"Lieutenant, I've got two PKMs and a handful of riflemen holed up behind an earthen berm to the north."

"Stand by, Rae, we're coming up behind you," came the reply, half in the radio, half in speech. I turned my head to see Joaquin and McBurney rushing up to where Dongle and I had set up, quickly hitting the dirt and crawling to us.

"Rae, Hicks," Joaquin puffed as he crawled up. "Get ready to move again. We're going to set up a base of fire here and hammer them with all we've got."

"Aye, sir," I said.

"McBurney," Joaquin said, turning to our machine gunner, "on my mark, I want you to light up that enemy position with the M60. I'll follow up with a forty mike mike. As soon as we hit, I want Rae and Hicks to rush and frag."

"Got it," McBurney said as he manhandled his machine gun into position. "Waiting on you, sir."

"Steady up…" Joaquin said. "Get ready…"

"Team one, we are under heavy fire and are in danger of being overrun! WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?"

"Stand by, Joker!" Joaquin shouted. "McBurney, light it up!"

"Hoo-yah," Roger said as he cut loose. The M60E4 roared to life, sending a hail of hot lead and glowing red tracers flying downrange. Not one split second later, a brilliant flash lit the enemy position, tearing shrubbery apart and throwing dirt and fragments of rock up in a big roiling cloud. Confused shouts and cries of pain rose into the night as the guns fell silent.

"LET'S GO!" I shouted. With Dongle by my side, we broke from cover and ran for the bunker entrance. As we crossed the road and the last stretch of open ground, I pulled a fragmentation grenade from its pouch on my vest and yanked the pin out. As I dropped the spoon, I could hear Dongle do the same.

"FRAG OUT!" Dongle and I shouted in unison as we let fly with the grenades. They hit their mark. Two more flashes lit the night, blowing smoke and dust into the wind as we rushed in. It was surreal. In the unearthly green of my night sights, the muzzle blasts of my CQBR pierced the darkness, bathing my targets in harsh, white light, the last light they would ever see. Red mist sprayed from where bullets had pierced their necks and faces. Wisps of smoke wafted away from the pounding of my steps and the thundering of my rifle. My aim was true. My rifle had spoken. The enemy had fallen. They would not have victory on this day.

"Cease fire! Friendlies coming through!" I shouted above McBurney's M60. We were close to his point of aim, a little too close actually. I could smell burning tracer compound and hear the cracks and pops of supersonic bullets flying by.

"Cease fire!" Joaquin repeated over the net. "McBurney, pack and go!"

"Aye, sir!" As soon as McBurney's machine gun went silent, there was a violent burst of automatic fire from the east where Joker's team was stationed, then quiet. My eyes darted from the antenna to the east bunker entrance, but saw no movement. Was Brockman's team still alive?

"Joker, SITREP!"Joaquin started again.

"About friggin' time!" Joker's voice crackled over the comm.

"Cut the crack, Brockman! What's your status?"

"Aye, sir," Brockman said, regaining his professional composure. "Those clowns tried to rush us from the east but Kilionski and Weaver scrapped 'em. No further contacts to report."

"Acknowledged," Joaquin said. "Rendezvous at the antenna."

Off in the distance I could see running forms break for the tall, wiry, monolith. As we ourselves made for the RV point, I took a moment to look over the "work" that we had done. Bodies lay strewn haphazardly between the east bunker entrance and the antenna, some twitching as they gave up their last breaths. Freshly drawn blood glistened in the starlight as we passed the north bunker entrance. After the cacophony of the frenetic gun battle and themorbid kaleidoscope of muzzle blasts and grenade explosions, the complete silence and utter darkness felt oddly out of place. As we gathered at the foot of the antenna, my thoughts were once again disrupted by radio chatter.

"X-ray Two, this is Hustler One-Seven. We are inbound from the south, ETA five minutes."

"Roger that, Hustler 1-7, we'll be there. X-ray 2, out." Lt. Joaquin replied. He turned to us and waved toward the LZ. "Let's get moving, team."

We took the long way around the east side of the compound, skirting the dunes and filing into the grove in a loose stack. Our column moved swiftly among the palms, cautiously scanning the brush for enemies in cover. Again, the quiet was disconcerting. My mind was working overtime to try and filter out the noise of our own movements to identify potential threats. As we closed on the LZ, we fanned out, forming a perimeter around the open ground where the Pave Low would come to pick us up.

"Blow the charges, Archie," Joaquin said.

"Aye, sir," Yang replied as he pulled the detonator out of his vest pouch. "Charges are hot. Hold on to your helmets…"

As Archie flipped the cover up and hit the switch, I couldn't help but notice a smile tugging at his lips. There was a great noise akin to thunder, but sharper, more piercing, and much closer. The first set of charges blew the roof of the command center to smithereens, setting ablaze the servers and burying the bunker entrance in assorted debris. In the backlight of the server fires, the antenna loomed monolithic and ominous. In one great gasp of buckling metal, the tower collapsed, dropping its thousand tons of steel into the desert sand in a swirling cloud of dust, ash, and billowing smoke.

"Ain't it beautiful?" Hicks chuckled next to me. A smile blossomed on my face. The demolition was something to behold. I could have stood there until daybreak watching were it not for the sudden rumbling of another explosion, this one much closer. A flash lit the morning dark just over a dune from us, deeper in the palm grove.

"What the…" Joker began.

"Might be secondaries," Archie said, turning to him.

"Then why are they so…" Danes trailed off as a whistling noise rose in pitch and intensity over our heads. There was a muted pop and suddenly the ground around us was bathed in red light. I snapped my head up in time to see three parachute flares begin their lazy descent to earth.

"GET DOWN!" Lieutenant Joaquin shouted. Everyone hit the dirt as an anti-tank rocket screeched over our heads and struck the dune some 30 yards behind us, throwing up a huge plume of dust. In the blink of an eye, the air was filled with hot lead and green tracers, punctuated by the shrieks of RPG rockets barreling past. I looked at Dongle and caught his eye. He pounded his fist in the sand and pointed at the machine gunners, clearly just as surprised and frustrated as I was.

"Hold fast, team!" Joaquin shouted over the radio. "Hold your positions!"

I looked downrange at the ghostly trails left by incoming rounds and brought my CQBR up to shoulder. Between the glowing streams of machine gun fire, I could make out the shapes of enemy soldiers sprinting towards us, rifles at the ready. My expression tightened and hardened like a mask of stone. In an instant, I was back in combat mode; emotionless, efficient, and deadly. My finger gently caressed the trigger…


	4. Tip of the Spear

**Episode 4: Tip of the Spear**

"Contact!" I could barely hear Ens. Brockman shouting above the din of gunfire. "Multiple contacts inbound from the north!"

"Weapons free!" Joaquin shouted back. "WEAPONS FREE!"

We cut loose, throwing the last of our ammunition reserves into the fray. The darkness around us slowly began to expire, evaporating into dull red as the first rays of dawn appeared on the horizon. Between magazines, I took the time to flip my night vision up and reset my EOTech to day mode, giving me a much larger field of view. There were shell casings everywhere, mixed in with machine gun belt links and spent 40mm grenade casings. The grass in front of us was charred, small fires burning from errant tracers and RPG fragments. The air reeked of cordite.

"Hustler 1-7, we have been engaged by a sizeable enemy element!" Joaquin's voice came over the comm waves. "Requesting IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION!"

"Stand by, X-ray 2, we are still en route. Mobile anti-air defenses have forced us to change our approach. ETA is three minutes. Hustler 1-7, out."

"If we run out of ammo, we'll be dead in three seconds…" I heard Hicks grumble.

"Shut up and keep shooting!" Brockman yelled. "Kilionski, RPG left flank!"

"He's mine!" the marksman said as he drew a bead with his SR-25. Kilionski's rifle shot straight and true, knocking the man off his feet. His rocket spiraled wildly high into the sky, where it self-destructed harmlessly. I dropped yet another spent magazine and jammed another one from my vest into my CQBR. By now, the front end was smoking, it had gotten so hot. I could feel the heat coming off the barrel assembly, even through my vertical foregrip and combat gloves.

My magazine secure, I slapped the bolt release and sighted in on the nearest enemy. The red dot of my EOTech snapped to his head, allowing me to drop him with a quick double tap, just as I had been trained. By now the field in front of us was littered with bodies, some dead outright, some struggling to crawl away as they slowly bled out, all out of commission. It was a wonder that none of our own had been hit. The seconds dragged on as we continued to trade fire.

"I'm out of ammo!" McBurney shouted. My head snapped to the SEAL as he pushed his machine gun aside and fumbled with his Mk. 23 handgun.

It was the last thing we wanted to hear. With one of our machine guns down, we would not be able to stop a determined enemy advance. Dongle and I stepped up our efforts with fully automatic fire, but we too were running low. As I paused to reload again, I padded my vest for another magazine, grimly noting that I had only one 30-round mag in reserve. At this rate, it would be used up in the blink of an eye.

"Hustler 1-7, we are barely holding the LZ against a superior enemy force. We are low on ammunition and are in danger of being overrun! Do you copy? WHERE ARE YOU?"

Silence. I looked at Dongle and he looked at me. Though neither of us spoke, we knew what was coming. I wasn't looking forward to a long run across the desert with people shooting at me. But at this point, it looked like we would have little choice.

"Hustler 1-7, we are in danger of being overrun! Do you copy? REQUEST IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION, OVER!"

I sighted in on my next target. This wasn't going to be easy. I flipped my rifle back to semiautomatic, hoping to conserve ammo just a little bit longer before having to resort to my sidearm as McBurney had. Suddenly, the man I was targeting was picked up and thrown aside, as if a giant invisible hand had just swatted him. I jerked my head to the right and saw a charred patch of ground marked with thin plume of smoke, preceded by many more just like it.

The sand around us began to billow out from a powerful downdraft, like a miniature tornado had suddenly touched down on the LZ. I looked upwards in time to see the Pave Low materialize from the dust cloud around us, blasting the enemy with heavy fire from its door-mounted Mk. 19 automatic grenade launcher. The throaty THUMPA-THUMPA noise of its muzzle blast was strangely comforting as the "Super Jolly Green Giant" dropped from the sky, nearly on top of us.

"DIRKA, DIRKA! Trick or treat, Hajjis! HAHAHA!" the pilot exulted over the net.

"Hooyah…" I said, a grin creeping across my face. Dongle was less discrete…

"YEEEEEEEHHHHAAAAAWWWWW!" the rebel yell from both my foxhole and radio headset made me wince, even over the sound of rifle fire and the continued thundering of the chopper's weapons.

The Pave Low stopped short of our position and accelerated to the left flank, quickly turning, slewing its tail just feet from the sand. As much as I made fun of him, I had to admit the pilot was good. The Pave Low finished its maneuver and touched down lightly in the clearing. The massive dust cloud lingered, screening us from view and the chopper's armored hull loomed before us, blocking what remaining enemy fire there was. The machine gunner on the Pave Low's far door cut loose, hammering the already reeling enemy with .50-caliber rounds.

"Friggin' helo jocks!" Joker laughed as he shouted above the whirling blades. "Always late for the party!"

"I heard you boys needed a lift," the chopper pilot said on our channel, chuckling lightly. "Hop in before Dom gets too trigger happy with the Ma Deuce!"

We didn't hesitate to oblige. Quickly leaving our nest of sand, shell casings, and cordite smoke, we snapped up and bolted for the chopper. Before we were even buckled in, the Pave Low was off the ground and rising. Slewing back around in a vortex of sand and steel, the chopper delivered one final barrage of 40mm grenades before speeding away.

"Thanks for the assist, Hustler," Joaquin said. "Just in the nick of time."

"No problem, sir. We're always up for some action!"

I let out a long breath, pulling up my sleeve to check my watch. It had been a mere twenty minutes from insertion to extraction, but those twenty minutes seemed like an eternity. My mouth tasted of soap, partly from the sand and partly from the chemicals my body dumped into my bloodstream during the firefight. As my heart rate returned to rest, my muscles slowly loosened up, allowing me a moment of respite in the midst of the chaos.

Dawn was breaking now. I could just make out the shore line as we sped away from the coast and over the breakers of the Arabian Sea. The mist from the wee hours had quickly dispersed, giving way to clear sky and eye-hurting sunlight. If it had been any other time, I would have considered this a vacation. I closed my eyes for a moment, only to be interrupted by a low growl that steadily grew in intensity. Jerking my head to my left and looking out the open door, I saw four birdlike forms swoop by, making the Pave Low shudder with their passing wake. Each jet bristled with weapons; cannon pods, missiles, bombs, the works. The first wave of Marines from the 26th was about to make landfall.

"Don't you flyboys ever stop showing off?" Brockman shouted over the sound of rotors and turbines. I turned to watch the ensign shake his fist at the Harrier pilots as their steel birds quickly faded into the distance.

"It's the tip of the spear, Joker," Joaquin chimed in. "Appreciate it while you can. The invasion is back in motion."

"Let 'em be, Brockman," I said. "You know the Jarheads; always thinking they're hot stuff."

"Well Johnny Jarhead still owes me a beer," Dongle smirked. "We did all the dirty work and now they get to play it like a video game! Droppin' bombs on Hajjis is cake."

I laughed. "Hicks, every we time finish a mission you think someone owes you a beer!"

"That's the straight up truth, Chief! By my count, Uncle Sam owes me a coupl'a kegs by now!"

I shook my head. "You're ridiculous."

"Lieutenant!" came a voice from the cockpit.

"What?" Joaquin responded, craning his head towards the copilot.

"Satellite phone, sir. It's for you."

Joaquin unsnapped his helmet and snatched the bulky unit out of the copilot's hand. "X-ray 2 here."

The phone twittered as whoever was on the other end launched into a long-winded speech. Times like this made me glad that I was just a noncom. I already had a hard enough time dealing with requisition orders and explaining to the quartermaster why we burned through our entire ammo load in just one go. But as a Chief Petty Officer, I could browbeat my way through requisitions; all that really mattered was that I shot the right people, blew up the right things, and made sure all of my guys came back in once piece. I dealt with enough brass in my hair during missions; the last thing I needed was brass in my hair on my downtime.

"Understood, command. X-ray 2 out." Lieutenant Joaquin ended the call and unceremoniously threw the phone back into the cockpit. I raised an eyebrow. This was very uncharacteristic of Joaquin's professional demeanor. Something was up.

"Sir…" I started.

"Bad news, team," he said, cutting me off. "When we hit the carrier, you boys have fifteen minutes to clean up, suit up, and rearm. We got another assignment from HQ. They're sending us back in."

"WHAT?" most of the cabin shouted in disbelief. Immediately, chatter among team members rose to the front, almost drowning out the sound of rotors and rushing wind in the cabin.

"Are you kidding me?" Brockman growled. "The Hajjis had us dead to rights back there and they want us to go back in without support or recoup time?"

"I take it the brass thinks this is a video game?" I muttered.

"They'll owe me more than a beer for this one," Hicks said, chuckling quietly. I shot him a sidelong glance, to which he replied with a thumbs-up. I shook my head. I guess this was to be expected. The second phase of the invasion had commenced already, and it looked like "Shock and Awe" was the name of the game. Uncle Sam was throwing everything he had at al-Asad. I guess that included us.

"Sir, what's so important about this mission anyways?" Joker said. Joaquin gave Joker a hard look. The cabin chatter suddenly petered out as all eyes turned to the lieutenant.

_"We're going after al-Asad."_


	5. Shafted

**Episode 5: Shafted**

"Now that's the fastest I've ever seen you get dressed, Hicks!" Joker laughed.

"You ain't seen nothin'!" the seaman retorted. "Rae here can tell you all about that one party where I…"

"Never mind!" Brockman said, waving his hand in front of his face in a vain attempt to dispel the mental image that had formed. "I'm sorry I asked…"

"Why so serious Joker?" Hicks teased.

"Are you tryin' to tell us something, Brockman?" McBurney said. "Hicks didn't even get to the good part yet!"

The other SEALs burst out laughing, myself included. Hicks playfully punched Brockman on the shoulder as McBurney knocked him once on the helmet, causing the exposed night vision mount to glint in the sunlight, right into my eye. I blinked back the brightness and shook my head. The Pave Low rocked gently in the steady salt breeze as we found ourselves speeding over the Arabian breakers yet again.

The stop at the carrier was brief, much briefer than I would have liked it to be. After our morning mission, I was really expecting some decent chow and a hot shower, but instead I was greeted with an MRE and a chunk of cold metal they told me was a rifle. If that's not hospitality, I don't know what is. The ship armorers were even so kind as to prep me a new CIRAS armor vest and assault pack complete with ammo and breaching tools. Just then I noticed Dongle absent-mindedly fingering the safety on his M14.

"Easy there, trigger!" I said, only half-jokingly. "You've got a loaded weapon there!"

"You bet I do," Hicks said, patting the battle rifle in his lap. "'Cept I'm killin' Hajjis today instead of ladies!"

Everyone groaned. If we had gotten used to anything by now, it was Hicks's lame jokes. Heck, they were almost as bad as his memory. Sometimes I wondered how he even passed BUDS. Dongle was absent-minded to a tee, but I guess his PT and marksmanship were good enough for the brass to twist some arms and let him through. He was very good at what he did, I gave him that, and a real hoot at mess or on break.

"Listen up, team!" Joaquin barked. Instantly, the chatter in the cabin stopped, leaving only the steady drone of the Pave Low's rotors. "Intel has a possible fix on al-Asad's location. Force Recon's morning raid secured a weapons depot and the TV station, but failed to capture him. Now it's up to us."

"So we cleanin' up Johnny Jarhead's mess again?" Hicks spat.

"Dongle, if you'll stop belly-achin' about the jarheads, your next beer's on me…" Brockman said. Hicks instantly perked up.

"How very kind of you, Joker!"

"… root beer, that is," the ensign said, a smug grin on his face. Dongle pointed his index finger at him, his face worked up in a mock scowl. The look in his eyes was simultaneously one of disdain and quiet amusement.

"You!" He said. "You're a tricky one, Brockman…"

"I only aim to please," Joker replied.

"Intel has al-Asad holding in a safe house on the city outskirts waiting for extraction," Lieutenant Joaquin continued, ignoring Brockman and Hicks. "We'll arrive before his ride does and do the snatch. Clean and simple."

"Why can't we just grease him, sir?" Hicks asked.

"Al-Asad is somehow connected to the goings on in Russia. The Brass didn't let many details out, but our orders are to take him alive," Joaquin replied.

"If it's just a snatch mission, then why are we loaded for bear?" Engels spoke up.

I looked across the cabin to the operator. He had a point. We were loaded with just about as much equipment as we could carry. I had traded my CQBR for its bigger cousin the M4A1, fully equipped with grenade launcher, my familiar EOTech sight, and Surefire light. Our backpacks were loaded to the brim with extra ammunition, be it M4 magazines or belts for McBurney's machine gun. A few of us even carried AT-4 anti-tank rocket launchers and satchel charges.

"We're not going to have much support for this mission, Jon; what we have is all we've got."

"LZ up ahead, boys! Get ready!" the pilot came over the intercom.

"Lock and load," Joaquin said.

The cabin filled with a chorus of sliding metal as we racked our weapons and checked our magazines. My weapon ready, I looked out over the city as the Pave Low zeroed in on our landing zone. Billowing columns of black smoke rose high into the sky, spreading out in a sooty black blanket. Myriad fires burned below and the rumble of artillery shaking the very foundations of the earth mixed with the shriek of fighter jets high above.

"There's the LZ, put 'er down."

Our chopper approached a small plaza amid squad mud brick buildings, apparently deserted. Many of the civilians had fled long before the invasion began. With all the bombing going on, even the looters had bugged out. As the Pave Low touched down in the plaza, I glanced around cautiously. The awnings of deserted storefronts and market stalls flapped uneasily in the violent downwash of the chopper's rotors.

"Perimeter out, GO!" Joaquin shouted. Our well-rehearsed unit fanned out from the chopper, eyes cautiously scanning the rooftops and windows for signs of activity.

"This is Hustler 1-7 going on station. Just call if you need us, X-ray 2."

"Copy that, Hustler. Watch our channel. X-ray 2, out," Joaquin said.

The chopper was gone in a swirling cloud of brown dust. As the sound of rotors faded into the distance, it became apparent just how quiet the place was. The only thing that broke the eerie silence was the soft crunch of our boots on crumbling stone. I swept my EOTech reticule up, warily eyeing the second floor windows of the houses before us.

A few of the wooden market stalls had toppled, spilling their wares about the cobbled plaza. Flies buzzed about rotting fruit lying stagnant in wooden bins. Blood encrusted bullet holes plastered the stones in a corner of the marketplace, where executions were clearly done in earnest. This was where the old ended. This is where the revolution began, leaving nothing standing in its wake. There was no life here. Even the air itself felt dead. We slowly collapsed our circle into two ranks and gingerly advanced on a stone archway exiting the plaza.

"Brockman, on point," came the terse command.

Without a word, Joker advanced to the front of the formation, M4A1 at ready. The double ranks further collapsed into a wedge with Joker at its point. Seeing nothing, the ensign gave the hand signal to advance. We crept along the street, eyes constantly darting from window to window, car to car, looking for signs of the enemy.

"I got a bad feeling about this, chief," McBurney whispered.

"Just keep your eyes peeled for hajjis," I said. Even without consciously trying, my grip was steadily tightening around my M4 carbine. Something wasn't right about this. We all felt it.

"Head into the alley over to the left," Joaquin whispered quietly. Joker broke left and entered the narrow alley. We collapsed to a single column in order to squeeze through, still on the lookout for enemies.

"Psst! I hear something!" Kilionski suddenly said. "Just above us!"

Joker gave the "freeze" hand sign and we stopped dead. Sure enough, several voices wafted down from above, all in Arabic. I craned my neck to locate the source and saw movement in one of the second floor windows. Something straight and black was sticking out of the window… something straight and black with a slotted muzzle break… a PKM.

"The safe house is one block over, just at the end of this alley," Joaquin said. "This building must be a guardhouse."

"What's the plan, lieutenant?" Brockman asked, not taking his eyes away from the alley end.

"Stay low. We need to figure out what we're up against," Joaquin whispered. He keyed his radio. "Hustler 1-7, this is X-ray 2. Do you copy?"

"Five by five, X-ray 2. What's your pleasure?" the pilot responded.

"I need you to make a quick pass over the target grid to recon enemy positions."

"Understood, X-ray 2, stand by."

The familiar thrum of the helicopter's rotors gradually filled the air as the Pave Low began its sweep. If the sentries were smart, they would either hide or ignore it. The last thing they would want to do was attract attention to the safe house; at least that's what I hoped. The turbine sound was much louder now, almost deafening as it echoed through the narrow confines of the alley. Finally, the buildings around us shook as giant helicopter made a low flyby.

"Friggin' helo jocks," Brockman muttered. "Always showing off."

"Can it," Joaquin said.

"X-ray 2, this is Hustler 1-7. I have movement on the rooftop of the target building, grid square alpha 1-3; multiple machine gun nests in the north building and two RPG teams on the roof of the south building."

"Ambushers… if we would have kept going, we would have stepped right into a trap," I muttered.

"Thanks for the assist, Hustler. Stand by for further orders," Joaquin said.

"Copy that, X-ray 2. Hustler 1-7 resuming combat station."

"What's the plan, lieutenant?" Brockman repeated.

"We spring the trap and steal the cheese," Lt. Joaquin replied. He pointed to the building to our immediate left. "Rae, I want your team to breech this building and grease those sentries. Take Kilionski with you. I want him and Dongle on the roof to give us overwatch protection. Be ready to move on my mark."

The officer turned to his own fire team. "EOD and Team two are with me; we're going to give our hajji friends the next building down a housewarming present. Get those satchel charges ready, Archie."

I nodded at my fire team and they instantly fell in line with me, Dongle just behind, McBurney next, and finally Dalton Kilionski, our squad marksman. I flipped on my tactical light and watched team two move out the corner of my eye. They quietly crept up to the side of the building and approached the back door, stacking up just as we had. Just as they were doing, I took a strip of explosive tape from my backpack and stuck it to the door's hinge side. My radio beeped.

"Go," came the quick command. I yanked the friction fuse and backed up two steps. I counted to five in my head, just as we had rehearsed so many times before.

_CRACK!_

I shouldered my rifle and charged in. A back hallway led into an empty kitchen, though the dirty dishes in the sink and quietly humming refrigerator indicated that it was recently occupied. We quickly passed through the kitchen and made for the vestibule at the end of the far hall. No resistance.

"Rae, SITREP!" came Joaquin over the radio.

"Advancing on the top floor, no resistance yet," I replied. I have the hand signal to advance and led my team forward. The column moved with me, as if it were an extension of my own body. The top of the stairs opened up into a wide hallway with two rooms. The one to our right was missing its door, but completely filled in with rubble, eliminating any chance for an enemy to be hiding there. An open doorway at the opposite end of the hall revealed another set of stairs, presumably leading to the roof.

"We got pissed Hajjis up ahead," Dongle said suddenly. Sure enough, from a room to our left came agitated chatter in Arabic.

"Looks like they caught on quick," I whispered. "Stack up and prepare to breech."

I sidled up to the door and slowly tried to rotate the handle. It was unlocked. I nodded subtly; this would make things easier. Keeping my left hand on the handle, I reached down with my right and removed a flashbang grenade from its pouch on my assault vest.

"Ready?" I spoke. I heard Kevlar shuffling to move into position; finally Dongle tapped my shoulder, indicating that he was ready.

"Flash out!" I flung the door open and bounced the flashbang off it. A deafening blast resonated through the hallway, kicking up a cloud of dust from the doorway. I ignored the ringing in my ears and rushed in, rifle sighted. The glowing red ring of my EOTech sight drifted in my field of view, scanning for targets. Suddenly, there was movement. An insurgent militiaman stumbled out from around a corner, clutching his ear in one hand and a handgun in the other. Though he was deafened by the blast, he obviously wasn't blind, as he froze upon seeing us. But even in his shocked and injured state, he still managed to flick his handgun up to firing position and get his finger around the trigger. He was fast, I gave him that, but I was faster. Instantly, my sighting dot was on his head and my finger stroked the trigger, dropping him with a single 5.56 to the head.

"Stay tight! McBurney, Kilionski, watch the rear!" I ordered.

"Copy," came the unison reply. I moved quickly to the body, kicking his gun away before kicking him between the legs to check if he was dead. Not even a twitch. I circled around the corner to the left, sweeping wide and letting Dongle slip in next to me. My eyes darted around the darkened room, followed closely by the pool of light cast by my Surefire. Something glinted in the darkness and my reticule instantly gravitated toward it.

"GET DOWN!" Dongle shouted, hammering my back with an open palm and shoving me to the ground. That probably saved my life, as machine gun fire ripped into the wall behind me where my head and chest would have been.

"Frag 'em!" I shouted above the din of gunfire. Dongle and I pulled fragmentation grenades from our vests and primed them, quickly lobbing them into the room ahead.

"_OOMBALA!"_ was the Arabic word for "grenade."

It was the only Arabic I had learned from one of the translators I had worked with before, and it was all I could hear as the insurgents scrambled for cover. Even though goggles and a balaclava covered my face, I still instinctively blinked and ducked my head when the grenades went off, peppering the walls with shrapnel and bloodstains. I pushed myself up off the floor with my free hand and motioned for Dongle to follow.

The yellow circles of our tactical lights darted about the room from body to body, putting a bullet in each one. I kicked the insurgents' weapons away and took a good look around for anything suspicious. The room was barricaded well, with boards over the windows and sandbags stacked to chest height around the perimeter. PKM medium machine guns protruded from the windows at various firing stations covering all angles of fire along our original avenue of approach. Placed on various tables around the room and in wooden crates scattered haphazardly around the floor were weapons ranging from Kalashnikov assault rifles to RPG rocket launchers. We would have been forced to face all of this firepower if we didn't duck into the alley. I keyed my radio.

"Lieutenant Joaquin, the MG nests are clear," I reported. "There's a huge weapons cache up here; looks like we barely circumvented an ambush."

"Copy that, Rae; good work. The charges are set, stand by for further orders," the reply came.

"Copy that, sir," I said. "McBurney, SITREP."

"All clear, Chief. Dalton and I are watching the entrance; no activity here."

"Understood, Rae out," Just as I released my radio button, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Chief, you might want to take a look at this!" Dongle said, pointing out the window.

I looked out the window, squinting into the brightness of the late morning sun outside. There was a lot of activity around the target building; the insurgents were swarming around it like ants. The men on the rooftops of the safe house instantly perked up and manned their posts. Guys on the ground took up defensive positions around sandbags and rubble. It was then that I noticed the roadblocks all around the house. There was only one street in and one street out; the perfect kill zone for the insurgents. More men exited the building, setting up behind the roadblocks, watching all angles for enemy approach.

"This just gets better and better…" Dongle trailed off. "BMP on the north road."

"This isn't good…" I muttered. The buildup of forces was substantial. There was no way we could have anticipated this. There were at least two dozen men there, backed up with heavy weapons and an armored vehicle. Even with our heavy loadouts, we were massively outgunned and outmanned. I keyed my radio again. "Lieutenant, we've got a situation on our hands…"


	6. House Call

**Episode 6: House Call**

_CRACK!_

I snapped my vision to the window to my right, just in time to see the adjacent building shudder violently. The gnashing of shattered brick and rent support struts filled the room as the building began to implode. The neighboring building was about twice as tall as our current digs, giving the RPG gunners a clear view of the kill zone… or what was left of them anyways. The rumbling ceased. Through the cloud of white dust, I could just barely make out where the debris field had settled; right on top of the exit. With that street blocked and insurgent roadblocks preventing vehicle access, the only way out was on foot. We had turned their ambush into a deathtrap. Perfect. The radio beeped.

"Take up positions in the rubble. We'll skirt the side of the plaza and breach the house from there," Joaquin said.

I turned my vision to the safe house. Several men scrambled out the front door and rushed to operate a gate on the far side of the plaza; the only entrance that was not blocked. The insurgents took up positions around the gate, knowing that somewhere in the dust and stone, Americans lurked. At the same time, groups of insurgents began breaking off from the main force and moving toward the demolished building where Joaquin and the other SEALs were hiding. They were getting close; too close.

"Lieutenant, I've got dramatically increased activity around the safe house."

"They're preparing to move al-Asad; we're running out of time," Joaquin said. "Rae, get up on that rooftop and give us some cover! We have to do the snatch the hard way, NOW!"

The insurgents weren't going to wait. The destruction of the south building and the blockage of all major roads to the safe house except for the north one only intensified the urgency of the situation. There was only one way out. They knew it and we knew it. Khaled al-Asad would be leaving with either the Hajjis or the SEALs today, and there wasn't a chance we were about to let them beat us at our own game.

"Roger that, moving out." I released the push to talk switch and faced Dongle, jerking my thumb towards the doorway. "Get moving. LT wants us to overwatch from the roof."

"Aw c'mon! Why can't we just overwatch from this nice, shaded machine gun nest?"

"Orders, jackhole, now let's get moving!" I punched him on the shoulder as I broke into a fast walk. Hicks rubbed it with his free hand, pretending to be hurt. "McBurney, Kilionski, ROOF!"

"X-ray 2, weapons free!" the command to fire came over the radio. The machine gunner and marksman both fell in as I slipped out the door and ran down the hall to the far stairwell. As we ascended the winding stairs, an explosion rattled the metal rails and the sound of automatic weapons fire reverberated throughout the stairwell.

"RAE!" Joaquin shouted through the radio. The automatic fire was coming through his microphone, indicating he was heavily engaged. "WHERE'S OUR COVER?!"

"Stand by, we're almost in position!" I replied. "There's the door!"

I backed up a step and shouldered the door hard, knocking the rusted, metal hulk off its corroded hinges. The door tottered for a split second before clattering loudly to the roof surface. We broke from the access door and fanned out on the roof. I scrambled to reach the low parapet that enclosed the roof and quickly peeked out over the edge. Even in broad daylight, I could clearly see the tracers flying back and forth between insurgent positions along the perimeter of the safe house and Lt. Joaquin's fire team taking cover in the rubble of the south building. We were two stories above the action, just out of sight. I quickly motioned for the rest of my fire team to take up positions on the line.

"Lieutenant Joaquin, we are in position. Call out your targets!"

"About friggin' time!" Joker shouted over the net.

"Can it, Brockman!" Joaquin shouted. "Rae, there are machine gunners on the roof; I need you to take 'em out!"

I turned to Dalton. "Kilionski, smoke those guys on the roof of the safe house!"

"With pleasure," the marksman said as he sighted in his Mk. 11 SR-25 sniper rifle. The report of the 7.62 reverberated across the stone surfaces of the buildings around us. I watched as a limp body fell off the roof onto the street below. One by one, the machine gunners on the roof of the safe house fell, their bodies going limp as Dalton Kilionski deftly eliminated them with precision fire.

"Four Tangos down, that's the last of 'em," Dalton said as he finished.

"Hold fire, Dalton," I said. "I don't want them to localize us. Lieutenant Joaquin, MGs on the roof are down."

A grenade exploded amongst the clustered insurgents in the plaza, scattering the remaining men, sending those not dead or injured scurrying for cover. The other SEAL squad quickly advanced, firing as they moved. The enemy tracers dwindled as lone insurgents met their fate at the hands of Joaquin's men. Suddenly, the insurgents panicked and began running, some dropping their weapons as they scrambled to reach the cover of the safe house.

"Hajjis are retreating," the lieutenant radioed. "Rae, continue overwatch; we're moving in."

"Roger that, sir, scanning sectors."

"We should just blow that house away," Joker muttered.

"Negative, Brockman. Al-Asad is in that house and we need him alive."

"Hey Joker," Hicks chimed in. "Buy the flyboys a beer and you might get your wish!"

"I hate you, Hicks," came the flat response.

"Can it, you two!" Joaquin barked. "If you don't have anything useful to say, STAY OFF THE NET! Rae I need you t-"

The radio suddenly cut out and was replaced with the sound of thundering gunfire. I glanced to my right, to the southeast, and saw more green tracers. _More machine guns?_ I asked myself. Suddenly, I realized the MG nest was moving. A squat treaded vehicle plowed through the sheet-metal fence blocking one of the alleys in, pouring fire into Joaquin's position with its mounted weapons.

"B-M-P!" I heard someone shout below us. We'd made a mistake. The BMP had moved out and flanked us while we were busy killing the Hajjis. I mentally smacked myself in the forehead. How could we have been so stupid?

"How could we have been so stupid!" Joker cursed, echoing my thoughts through the radio.

"Keep your head on straight!" Joaquin shouted. "Engels! AT-4 on that vehicle NOW!"

"I'll try sir!"

"I don't want you to try, sailor! I want you to DO IT!"

I looked to the safehouse. Emboldened by the arrival of their armored vehicle, the other insurgents swarmed out of the safehouse, weapons firing, chanting in Arabic as they ran. I looked to Dongle for a moment and watched as he hunkered down on his weapon, flipping the safety off his M14 with his trigger finger. I keyed my radio.

"Lieutenant, I've got more insurgents advancing on your position, request permission to engage."

"Do it!" came the curt response, gunfire distorting the radio feed.

"You heard the man!" I shouted. "Weapons free!"

"I thought you'd never say it," Dongle said menacingly.

Without hesitation, he sighted in and pulled the trigger... again and again. Dongle didn't stop until his rifle clicked empty, painting the ground red with aimed rifle fire. I loaded a 40mm grenade into my M203 and looked down my barrel to where they were advancing. The muted thump sounded strange next to the cacophony of Dongle's M14, Kilionski's Mk. 11, and McBurney's M60, but the resulting explosion was satisfying. The insurgents scattered again, taking cover in craters and sundry debris as they returned fire, finally discerning our position.

"Engels, what are you waiting for, take the shot!" I heard Joaquin shout.

"Backblast!" Engels responded.

"Backblast area clear!" came another voice.

"FIRING!"

The AT-4 was the loudest weapon we trained with; so loud that we weren't allowed to fire more than one or two per session. I had fired the AT-4 a few times before and the experience was far from enjoyable. The shockwave from the rocket's supersonic wake felt like being punched in the face and the muzzle blast left your ears ringing for an hour afterwards. I could feel shock of the muzzle blast the moment Engels hit the firing switch. I was convinced it was just a memory, but that still did little to mitigate the massive BOOM of the rocket launch. I swung my vision to the BMP, but it was still firing. Then I noticed the plume of smoke rising from the wall of the safe house where a huge hole had been blown out by the rocket. Engels had missed.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Engels' voice cracked in frustration and disbelief.

"Focus!" Joaquin shouted, rallying his team. "Stay on those hajjis! I'm calling in air support!"

"Hey, something's moving back there!" Kilionski suddenly said. My head snapped out of the radio chatter and zeroed in on where Dalton had pointed.

I squinted into the light, past the BMP's tracers, and past the cowering insurgents and the masses of dead bodies. A lone black car slipped into the plaza from the single entrance. I could make out the distinct quad headlights of a BMW sedan. Despite the fury of the combat around us, the men who stepped out of the car were calm and composed. They wore red shemaghs about their heads and carried G3A4s; the rifle's peculiar profile was easy to pick out amongst the mass of Kalashnikovs we dealt with before.

The new arrivals carried themselves like soldiers; by their equipment and composure, it was apparent they were professionals, the elite. Something was up. If they sent a nice car and hardcore henchmen someplace, they had to be moving something important. I caught movement in the shadows behind the house. My eyes narrowed and my upper lip curled as I saw the man who stepped out of the side entrance of the safe house. The bearded figure in a red beret and aviator sunglasses calmly approached the BMW. A red shemagh was draped about his shoulders, a Kalashnikov slung across his back. There was no mistaking it.

"Lieutenant Joaquin, we've got a bead on al-Asad!" I shouted.

"Do what you can to slow them down! Hustler 1-7, do you copy?"

"Take out that car!" I yelled. Putting my reticle on the hood, I squeezed the trigger. My rounds pinged off its armor-plated hull. Spiderweb cracks appeared where 5.56 struck bullet-proof glass. The pings were quickly joined by loud clangs and crackles as the three 7.62-wielding sailors next to me unleashed their firepower on the car.

My attack on the car's engine compartment unsuccessful, I switched targets to the wheels, attempting to puncture the tires with my bullets. I could see where my shots had hit, but the tires were resistant to deflation; they would still be able to get away if they could safely get al-Asad to the car. The bodyguards formed up behind a row of sandbags between the car and our position and returned fire.

"McBurney, suppress that position!" I began issuing orders. "Dalton, I want you to take that car out! Shoot out the tires!"

"Gimme a sec…" the marksman answered, he popped up above the parapet and drew a bead on the target 300 yards distant. "Steady…"

"WAIT! GET DOWN!" Dongle shouted. He grabbed Kilionski's plate carrier drag handle and pulled him to the roof. Dalton's shot went wild.

"What the-" Dalton didn't have a chance to finish. The parapet where Dalton had just stood behind exploded, showering us with dust and fragments of stone. McBurney and I dove for cover as hot metal and green tracers streaked over our heads.

"Is everyone all right?" I shouted.

"You screwed up my shot, Hicks!" Dalton blasted, delivering a close-fisted blow to Dongle's helmet.

"I saved your life jackhole!" Hicks retorted as he got a handle on his rifle and straightened his headgear. "Don't bother getting up 'less you want your head blown off!"

"Just a second longer and I could have made that shot!"

"Yeah?" The sailor grinned. "Well in Soviet Russia, shot makes YOU!"

"I hate you, Hicks…" the marksman spat.

"Yeah, everyone's all right," McBurney muttered.

"Rae! SITREP!" Joaquin's voice crackled over the radio.

"We engaged the vehicle but couldn't disable it!" I said, straining above the thunder of the BMP's automatic cannon. "That BMP has us pinned! A little help would be nice!"

"Air support is on its way, just hang on a little longer!"

"If we hang on any longer, al-Asad is going to get away!" Hicks growled. "What I wouldn't give for a light-.50 right now…"

"What I wouldn't give for a TOW missile!" McBurney yelled back. Suddenly, my radio beeped.

"X-ray 2, this is Hustler 1-7 providing close air support," the helicopter pilot said over the net. "I brought a friend; I hope you boys don't mind!"

"Hoo-yah!" Dalton cheered.

"Man, I never thought I'd be so glad to see your ugly mug!" Joker said over the net.

"That's the second time today, Brockman," the pilot chuckled. "I do believe you owe me a beer…"

"In your dreams, Ross!"

"This is your cap'n speakin'," another voice came over the net. "What'll it be today, boys?"

As he said this, I looked up to see a Cobra attack helicopter zoom over our position, spraying us with dust and debris kicked up by the rotor wash. The insurgents paused for a moment as the nimble helo came back around and began circling the plaza. The BMP halted its machine gun fire and began to track the new threat. I raised my body so I could see just well enough to direct the chopper's fire.

"BMP in the plaza," I said into the mic. "Take it out!"

"Roger that. Cue Ball's on the mark," the pilot said.

A puff of smoke issued from the chopper's left weapon rack, followed by a fast-moving orange flare. The missile connected; the resulting explosion shoving the BMP sideways, crushing several insurgents as it slid. A secondary explosion tore the BMP apart, leaving behind nothing more than a smoldering wreck of twisted metal and black smoke.

Hicks got up just in time to see it hit, shielding his eyes from the blast with a gloved hand. He chuckled lightly, turning around to offer Roger a hand to get back up. "Looks like you got your wish, McBurney!"

"DIRKA DIRKA!" came Ross over the net as he brought his Pave Low in.

The large chopper's heavy machine gun went to work, clearing the plaza of entrenched insurgents. My team snapped up to the parapet, taking stock of the situation. Most of the insurgents were either dead or running for their lives, trying to get out of dodge before we smoked them. Suddenly, I noticed more movement near the back of the plaza. The black BMW was making its escape. I quickly keyed my radio.

"Lieutenant! He's getting away!"

"Cue Ball, this is X-ray 2," Joaquin radioed. "Thanks for the assist, but we need one more favor. Al-Asad is in that black car! We-"

"Target identified," the Cobra pilot replied, cutting him off. "Weapons are hot; preparing to engage…"

"WAIT! HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Joaquin shouted. "We need al-Asad alive!"

"Understood, X-ray 2. Orders?"

"Follow that car! We're going to mount up and give chase."

"Roger that, X-ray 2. Cue Ball's on the job."

"Copy that. Keep us posted."

"I have negative targets, lieutenant," Ross said. "What's the plan?"

"Meet us in the plaza, Hustler. We've got a despot to catch." Without missing a beat, Lieutenant Joaquin switched off to our squad, waving to my rooftop position as he spoke. "X-ray 2, regroup on me! _They won't get far._"


	7. Cornered

**Episode 7: Cornered**

_Chaos._ For miles around, that was all I could see. Everywhere I looked, the war machine was in motion. Harriers shrieked by on bombing runs, Sea Knights with their Cobra escorts buzzed about their designated drop zones. Abrams tanks flanked by Bradley fighting vehicles barreled toward the city, viciously smashing any opposition in their way. Everywhere; flames, steel, sand, blood.

Even the sky itself was afire. The crystal blue of the morning had turned into an ugly shade of red, akin to congealed blood. The sun peered weakly through the haze that had settled over the land; an acrid mixture of heated metal, burning oil, and airborne dust. As I looked out the side door of the Pave Low, there were fires as far as the eye could see; from each one a plume of smoke rising. The rising black columns snaked up into the sky, feeding the seething red ocean above. The city was burning.

When I was a kid, my mom had always read to me stories from the Bible; stories of the apocalypse. The earth would burn, the sky would be peeled back like a scroll, the mountains would crumble, and men would quake in fear. I had always thought they were stories to scare little kids; that it would never happen in my lifetime, if at all. But it was happening now; and I was a part of it.

"You gettin' this?" I said to Hicks, my eyes glued on the scene.

"Looks like Johnny Jarhead's really layin' it on the Hajjis…" he replied. He chuckled lightly before abruptly changed the subject. "Where we headed anyways?"

"LT's on the phone, he'll tell us when he's done," Brockman said gruffly. He barely stirred even as he growled at Hicks. Joker's chin rested on his plate carrier vest and he was clearly not in the mood for animated conversation.

"Someone's panties are in a bunch…" Dongle said, raising an eyebrow.

"Heh, you know Joker," McBurney said. "Big man needs his beauty sleep."

"I could use some of that," Joker said, still not moving from his slouched position, "but what I really could go for right now is some chipped beef and-"

"Oh c'mon, Brockman!" Hicks laughed. "You needn't be so proper! Everyone knows it's called shi-"

"Cut the chatter!" Joaquin butted in, momentarily turning from his satellite phone. "We're almost there."

I punched Hicks on the shoulder. He gave me a sidelong glance, but said nothing. Joaquin spoke into the receiver again, though it was unintelligible because of the drone of the Pave Low's engines. Finally, he clicked the phone off and handed it off to the copilot. Everyone except Joker straightened back up as Joaquin turned to address us.

"Cue Ball is in hot pursuit of al-Asad's getaway vehicle," Joaquin said. "He won't be able to shake a Cobra."

"Couldn't he just hide at another safe house?" Engels asked.

"Cue Ball is keeping his bodyguards on their toes, directing them north along Highway 9."

"Isn't that what we DON'T want them to do?" Brockman said, finally lifting his head.

Hicks leaned forward and knocked on Brockman's helmet. "I was beginning to wonder if there was anybody home!"

"You're a moron, Hicks," the ensign said coldly. Brockman looked up and glared at Dongle, causing the seaman to instantly pull back and straighten up in his seat. "Lieutenant, if al-Asad gets to the highway, he'll just punch it and blow this joint."

"Negative, Brockman. That's exactly where we want them to go. I just got off the horn with Marine HQ. They've agreed to supply us with armored vehicles to deploy a road block on Highway 9. The Marines stop al-Asad on the highway and we cart him off for interrogation."

"Uh, lieutenant," Hicks began.

"What is it, sailor?"

"If we want al-Asad alive, why did you put the JARHEADS on roadblock duty?"

We all looked at Dongle for a moment then burst out laughing. Even the stoic Lieutenant Joaquin cracked a smile. "This is pretty important, Hicks," the lieutenant said, regaining his composure. "Commander McQueen will have their heads on a plate if they screw it up."

"Maybe we can go home then," Brockman said quietly.

Dongle turned to him and grinned. "Take it easy, man! I got something to cheer you up! How 'bout a friendly little wager?"

Brockman turned to face him with a twinkle in his eye. "You don't even know how to calculate basic odds, Hicks. What makes you think I'll take a bet from you?"

"C'mon Brockman, it's all in good fun!"

"Right…" Brockman looked around the cabin, but was obviously still interested. He was quite the card shark back at base and on the carrier; beat me every time at Hold 'Em. I swear the man could count cards and crunch probabilities in his head. Hicks was obviously just screwing around, but I'd never known Ryan Brockman not to take a good bet. He continued, "So what's the deal, Hicks?"

"A bottle of Sam Adams from the PX says al-Asad gets shot," the seaman grinned.

Brockman looked to me for a moment. I shook my head and shrugged. It was Hicks after all; he always had the weirdest ideas. I caught McBurney's eye and nodded my head in Brockman's direction. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, waving his free hand in dismissal. Brockman nodded slowly before turning back to Hicks.

"You're on, Hicks," Brockman finally said, extending his hand. Dongle grasped it and they shook. "And you haven't a clue what you just got yourself into…"

"There it is!" the copilot suddenly said.

I looked out the open door of the Pave Low. As the big chopper began a slow spiral downwards, I could spot the black asphalt of the elevated highway rising from the haze. Parked perpendicular to the road were two M2 Bradley armored transports, their rear hatches open and their autocannons trained south. Marines stood around the armored hulks, swiveling their heads around in search of targets.

Between the Bradley fighting vehicles stood an M1A1 Abrams tank. The 60-ton beast faced south as well, its frontal armor facing al-Asad's approach. The Abrams' armor was impervious to all but the most powerful of weapons and its main gun was able to pierce hardened steel like cardboard. The tank packed no less than three machine guns of varying calibers, able to engage anything from infantry to helicopters. In this situation, the tank seemed like overkill, but I guess you could never be too careful.

"Hustler 1-7, this is Bravo 1," a voice broke over the comm. "We have you on visual; welcome to the party."

"Much obliged, Bravo 1," Ross replied. "Any contacts?"

"Negative, Hustler. Zero activity since we diverted here."

"Keep your eyes peeled," the pilot said. "If Holt was doing what he was supposed to, the target should be here any min-"

"This is Cue Ball coming in hot!" the Cobra pilot interrupted. "Target is inbound on your location, closing fast; get ready boys!"

"… speak of the devil," Ross finished.

I turned my head to look out the other door. Lt. Holt's chopper started as a metallic sliver in the distance, but quickly enlarged into the sleek, dragonfly form of the Cobra. By this time, the Pave Low had settled into a steady orbit around the roadblock. The movement had me turning my head back to the other door to face the highway. The Marines scrambled to take up positions behind the vehicles and their armored doors, their rifles pointed down the road. The commander of the Abrams racked the charging handle on his M2 .50-cal and the loader opened his hatch to man the M240 pintle gun. Rushing this barricade would be suicide.

"Wait for it..." Brockman said.

I looked out over the highway again just in time to see al-Asad's BMW come barreling down the road at top speed. The roadblock was stationed jut behind a rise in the road built to accommodate nearby structures. The driver of al-Asad's car would not be able to see the Marines until it was too late. Perfect. Our Pave Low shuddered as Cue Ball passed nearby and began a steady orbit around the roadblock, cockpit and cannon always pointed towards the road. Ignoring the temporary intrusion, my eyes remained glued on the speeding black BMW.

"And there it is," Brockman said with grim satisfaction.

The driver crested the rise and saw the armored vehicles. In an incredible display of skill, he punched the brakes, broke the rear end loose, and slung the car back around, throwing up white smoke as the tires bit into asphalt. He completed the about-face and was prepared to peel out in the opposite direction when the Cobra opened fire, splattering 20mm rounds into the road just in front of the car. Distracted, the driver lost control. The BMW slammed into the median, stopping it instantly. White steam rose from its crumpled hood as the doors quickly snapped open. The bodyguards exploded out of the car, quickly snapping their G3s to shoulder. Al-Asad was pulled from the car and pushed down to the ground behind the wreck as his guards engaged the Marines.

"Watch your fire, Bravo 1," Joaquin cautioned. "The guards are expendable, but we need al-Asad alive."

"We'll take care of it, X-ray 2."

"Take us down, Ross," Joaquin ordered the pilot.

"Aye, sir."

The Pave Low tightened its descent, preparing to drop almost on top of the crash. One by one, the guards fell to the superior marksmanship of the Marines until only one remained. He spotted the Pave Low and turned his weapon to it before a burst from one of the Marines' M16A4s cracked his skull open. He slumped to the ground a bloody mess as the Pave Low touched down.

"GO! GO!" Joaquin shouted.

We jumped from the chopper, weapons at the ready. By the time we hit the asphalt, al-Asad was already making a run for it. But something was wrong. He was running _towards_ the roadblock. We scrambled to get to al-Asad before he- or the Jarheads for that matter- did something stupid. As we ran, the Marines shouted at him to stop, some in English, some in Arabic, all with their weapons trained on him.

Suddenly, al-Asad stopped. He whirled around, looking at the Bradleys and the Abrams, then the US Marines, then his destroyed car and dead bodyguards, and finally the US Navy SEALs closing the noose. Something snapped inside his head. I could see it on his face. He raised his hands to the sky and shouted something in Arabic. Even in the dust-dimmed light, I could see the glint of metal in his hand.

"BOMB!" I shouted.

Time seemed to slow down. Some of the Marines dove for cover while the others slowly backed away, their M16s still trained on the bearded figure in the red beret. The red dot on my EOTech sight locked on to his head, ready to deliver the fatal blow if necessary. But I was hesitant; Joaquin said it was important that we take him alive. Just what was inside that head of his that the Brass wanted to know so badly?

Al-Asad's tone changed. He spoke softer now, as if taunting instead of merely threatening us. My hands tightened around the M203 barrel and pistol grip on my carbine. Who would fire the shot? Would I have to do it? The man fingered the detonator in his hand and whispered something barely audible. Though I couldn't understand a word he said, the tone of his voice made my skin crawl. With one final word, he waved his hand in the air, detonator gleaming. _It was now or never._ His thumb brushed the detonator key. My finger brushed the trigger.

_BOOM._


	8. Actionable Intelligence

**Episode 8: Actionable Intelligence**

My death grip on my carbine slowly eased as comprehension dawned on me. Keeping al-Asad in my sights, I slowly advanced on his crumpled body in step with the other SEALs. The sound of a pistol hammer falling to rest told me all I needed to know. The adrenaline rushing through my veins had heightened my senses, even allowing me to hear the muted click of a Mark 23, that .45-caliber monster of a handgun, locking back into its holster.

"Cordon the area," came the order. "I don't want any more funny business."

My booted feet crunched across the debris-strewn asphalt, stopping within inches of the dictator's motionless body. I kept my finger near the trigger, but outside the guard. The Marines just in front of us were silent, as were the SEALs beside me. Only the thrumming of the Abrams' engine and the rotors of the two helicopters circling above us disturbed the abrupt hush that had fallen over that little stretch of Highway 9.

"GET UP!" Joaquin's bellow broke the silence. I stepped to my left, my weapon still on the body. The lieutenant barreled past me and jammed a booted foot into the man's ribs, rolling the body over and eliciting a soft moan from al-Asad. His aviator glasses clattered away from him as he rolled. Joaquin advanced on the downed dictator, his booted feet smashing the sunglasses with a loud _crunch_ as he moved.

"I know you're still there, now GET UP!" Joaquin shouted as he kicked him again. Al-Asad mumbled something in Arabic, to which Joaquin growled menacingly. "Brockman! Pick him up!"

Joaquin kicked him again before Brockman bent down and lifted him upright, keeping him in position with a full arm lock. I finally saw just what the Mark 23 had done. Al-Asad's hand was speckled with blood and embedded with flakes of metal from where the .45 had shattered the detonator handle. Joaquin tore off the man's jacket, exposing the suicide rig, which the officer promptly cut off with his knife and unceremoniously tossed over the side of the overpass. He turned to face al-Asad.

"Khaled al-Asad," Joaquin began again. "Your actions have led to the deaths of hundreds, the unlawful imprisonment of thousands, and the destruction of your own nation by force of arms both foreign and domestic."

Joaquin slammed his fist into al-Asad's stomach, making the man gasp for breath, cringing as he reeled from the unexpected blow. "But look at you now!"

"Beaten, broken, pathetic!" Every word was punctuated by a bone-jarring blow from Joaquin's fists. "Even your own men couldn't save you from a handful of sailors out for a morning on the town!"

Joaquin hit him again, forcing al-Asad to empty the contents of his stomach onto the asphalt. The officer paused for a moment to let al-Asad spit out his breakfast. As the prisoner coughed up the last of it, Joaquin leaned in and spoke. "Your men couldn't protect you then and they can't protect you now."

_CRUNCH_. As Joaquin withdrew his fist, al-Asad winced and shook his head, his body squirming; desperately trying to weasel his way out of Joker's arm lock. But the big sailor only tightened his grip. Unable to escape and clearly in pain, al-Asad stopped his struggle, if only to gain a moment's respite.

"I know you can understand me, Khaled," Joaquin continued. "I've studied your dossier. I know you better than you know yourself."

Joaquin brought his head within inches of al-Asad's, his face stony and cold, even in the midst of the midday heat. "I also know your kind. You couldn't possibly have done all this yourself, Khaled. You're just a cog in the machine, a mere pawn in this game we're playing."

Joaquin wound up and punched al-Asad in the face, snapping the man's head backwards into Joker's plate carrier. As he lifted his head to face Lieutenant Joaquin, I could see a bruise quickly forming around his left eye. "Who are you working for?"

Al-Asad mumbled something in Arabic. Though I couldn't understand a word of it, his voice was full of contempt. Joaquin responded in kind, delivering another blow to his solar plexus, completely knocking the wind out of him. Al-Asad's knees collapsed, forcing Joker to pull him back upright in his arm lock to keep him facing the lieutenant.

"I'm being nice, Khaled," Joaquin said. "It can only get worse from here. You can stop this nonsense right now. Just tell me who you're working for."

Al-Asad repeated what he had said before. Despite the fact that he was bruised and beaten, he was still defiant. Joaquin expelled a blast of breath from his nostrils, but remained stony-faced. He appeared to turn away for a moment, but instead quickly wound up and punched al-Asad in the face. "Tell me who you w-"

"Lieutenant!" a voice interrupted from near one of the Bradley fighting vehicles. A slightly built man clad in digital camouflage emerged from the crowd of Marines watching the interrogation with morbid fascination. He wore a single subdued bar on the collar of his uniform, placing his rank as a Marine lieutenant, a platoon commander at best; still outranked by Joaquin. "This is unnecessary! If I allow this to continue, we could all be tried for war crimes!"

Joaquin slowly turned to face the Marine. The man's hand rested on the grip of his M9 9mm sidearm, still in its holster, but clearly ready to be drawn. Though he was probably about the SEAL commander's age, he clearly lacked the tact and experience to know who he was dealing with. This wasn't going to end well. Joaquin looked the young lieutenant in the eye.

"I have my methods and you have yours, lieutenant, now stand down," Joaquin said coldly.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think…"

"I don't care what you think, lieutenant," Joaquin said, the chill in his voice silencing the banter between Marines and freezing the platoon commander dead in his tracks. "Stand down. Don't make me pull rank on you."

"I really don't want to do this, sir…" the Marine said through clenched teeth as his grip tightened on his M9. Before he could make a decisive motion, Joaquin drew his Mark 23 and in a flash, leveled it at the young lieutenant's head. His trigger finger deftly flipped the attached laser aiming module's switch, projecting a brilliant red dot right between the Marine's eyes.

"Lieutenant Palmer," Joaquin said calmly, reading the Marine's name tape. "You have five seconds before I put a .45-caliber bullet in your head. Now stand DOWN!"

_Silence_. Palmer was petrified. His eyes darted around at the Navy SEALs standing idle, then to al-Asad and Joker, and finally back to the SEAL commander's handgun locked squarely on to his head. His hand twitched. Joaquin's trigger finger tightened ever so slightly.

"Yes… sir…" Palmer said, clearly shaken, as he released the grip of his M9 and slowly stepped backwards to his Bradley. Murmurs coursed through the Marines, some of which had just begun to raise their M16s in protest to the SEAL commander's actions. Ignoring the Jarheads, Joaquin reholstered his Mark 23 and turned back to al-Asad.

"I'm asking you again, Khaled," Joaquin continued. "Who do you work for? Answer me NOW!"

Al-Asad repeated the same phrase yet again, to which Joaquin responded with a low growl. "I'm losing my patience, Khaled. If you don't tell me, I'm going to start blowing holes in your limbs one by one until you do. Now tell me who you work for!"

Joaquin hit him hard in the face, breaking the man's nose. Al-Asad choked and coughed, spitting out blood from his mouth as it streamed down his face. I expected the next blow to come any second, followed by another round of questioning. But it never came. I looked to the lieutenant, only to find him staring at the knuckles on his gloved right hand. His black leather gloves were stained dark crimson from al-Asad's blood, but also covered in flecks of something flesh-colored. His eyes held a look of incredulity.

Joaquin stepped forward and ripped the hat off al-Asad's head, flinging it aside. With his other hand, he grabbed al-Asad's cropped hair and yanked hard. It peeled off in patches; artificial patches. The man was bald. My breath froze in my throat. Al-Asad wasn't bald. We had all seen it in the dossier photos during the helicopter ride in.

Joaquin reached for al-Asad's face, quickly slashing his fingers across his nose and cheeks. His gloves came away pink. Joaquin pinched the flesh-colored substance between his thumb and fingers and exhaled forcibly. _Makeup_. The man we had caught began laughing uncontrollably, in spite of his injuries. Joker tightened his arm lock to keep him restrained, but this did nothing to mitigate his laughter.

"Military intelligence," the lieutenant muttered. "Let him go, Brockman."

"Sir, I…" Joker said, hesitating.

"Just do it," Joaquin sighed.

Joker lowered the fake al-Asad to the ground and stepped away as he rocked back and forth in laughter. It was simultaneously comical and disturbing. The man was covered in crimson. His face was caked in dust and blood from his still oozing nostrils and his shirt and jacket were stained with both vomit and blood from where he had been hit multiple times.

But still he continued to laugh. I wasn't sure if I should have been frightened or angry. Part of me wanted to tear his throat out with my bare hands for the trickery he had done, but the other part of me wanted to jump back into the chopper and fly away knowing that he knew something we didn't. Suddenly, I caught a violent motion out of the corner of my eye.

Without warning, Joaquin turned and stomped hard on the man's stomach making him vomit again, this time blood. The man choked and wheezed until he could catch his breath before laughing again. He chortled merrily between coughs until I heard the click of a hammer and saw Lieutenant Joaquin draw his Mark 23.

"WHO ARE YOU?" Joaquin snarled as he fired once.

The roar of the .45 momentarily drowned everything else out; the maniacal laughter of the al-Asad phony, the rumble of tanks and fighting vehicles in the distance, the drone of helicopters above, the radio chatter coming from the Bradleys' open cabins, the hum of the Abrams' turbine engine.

The laughter turned to screams of pain and shock as the man clawed at the remains of his shattered knee. His glee instantly evaporated as he screamed, horrified that pieces of his leg were now splattered upon the asphalt. Lieutenant Joaquin let him stew for a moment in his own panic. The impostor's arms fluttered from the ground around him to his chest, to his leg, and back again, all the while punctuated by incomprehensible screams. The SEAL commander knelt down, his face just inches from the hysterical, terror-stricken face of the impostor.

"This is my last shred of patience! NOW WHO ARE YOU?" Joaquin said, his voice practically impaling the man with icicles. "Tell me now or I swear that you'll never walk again!"

Finally the man caved. He was losing blood fast, and he knew it. He had no more protections. He had no more positions to fall back on. He had no more bodyguards to take the bullet for him. He was going to die. The impostor began to cry, the tears streaming down his face making a mess of the blood, makeup, and dust that had stuck to him in the course of the scuffle. The man babbled in Arabic, spewing forth so much information so fast that I could barely even make out individual words. Joaquin nodded slowly as he took it all in.

"Take him away, Lieutenant Palmer," Joaquin said, finally turning to the Marine platoon commander. Palmer looked about to protest, but Joaquin's steely gaze instantly shut him up. Palmer looked to two men by his Bradley and motioned his hand at the sobbing man crumpled in a pathetic, blood-soaked heap in the middle of the highway. One of the corpsmen grabbed a large pack from the back of the vehicle and slung it over one shoulder as they rushed to treat the wounded impostor.

"Hustler 1-7, this is X-ray 2 requesting dust-off on my position," Joaquin said, keying his radio. It was as if it were all business. The man wasn't even fazed.

"Roger on dust-off, X-ray 2. Hustler is coming in low and slow, out."

The sound of the Pave Low's whirling rotors grew louder as it descended down to highway level, kicking up dust and debris from the wreck of the BMW and the blasted asphalt from Cue Ball's autocannons. Joaquin motioned to the chopper and we formed up, preparing to pile back in.

"Bravo one, this is X-ray 2," Joaquin said flatly.

"This is Palmer," the platoon commander replied, not without a touch of apprehension. "What do you need, sir?"

"Take War Pig and the rest of your squadron back to rally point Echo outside the city. I'm putting you back under Marine command."

"Understood, sir." the lieutenant said. "Let's get that Abrams moving!"

A low murmur went up from the Marines as Palmer waved them back to the Bradley fighting vehicles. The War Pig's commander briefly exchanged words with Palmer before giving orders to his crew in preparation for the coming move. As we boarded, the armored vehicles buttoned up and began to move out, leaving only the smoking wreck of the BMW and a few splotches of blood as evidence we were ever there.

"Sir?" Brockman said as he followed Joaquin back into the Pave Low.

"We've got actionable intelligence. We'll have to move quickly," Joaquin said, not a shred of emotion on his face. "I'll explain along the way. Ross, get us to the Saladin monument, pronto!"

"Aye, sir," the pilot quipped. Ross eased gently on the collective and the chopper rose into the dusty air. He set the heading and soon we were off again, Cue Ball by our side. As we leveled out, a pall settled over the team. I didn't know what it was, but there was something about the way Joaquin had adressed us that made my skin crawl. I looked to Hicks. He returned my gaze solemnly. As I scanned the seated Navy SEALs and saw their stony, somber faces, I suddenly realized that we were in for far more than we signed on for.


End file.
